


Aftermath

by gabri_hell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27028630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabri_hell/pseuds/gabri_hell
Summary: Scars run deeper than they appear. Even though the trio is back at Hogwarts to properly attend their last year of school and pass the N.E.W.T.s exams, things have changed. Both mentally and physically scarred, the once strong Gryffindor know-it-all princess is feeling her sanity slowly slipping away. And the last person she expects to care is actually the first one to catch her broken cry for help.**I do not own any of the characters, places or other wizarding world element. I simply use the great work of JK Rowling to improve my writing and to fulfill impossible dreams.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 11
Kudos: 47





	1. Prologue

She opened her eyes, a broken scream still lodged in her throat, held captive by her swollen vocal cords and the dryness of her mouth. She had gotten used to the nightmares by now, not that they had gotten tolerable, far from it.

Hermione Granger was simply used to waking up with tear strained cheeks, a hoarse throat and an empty house. Not her parent’s home, but empty nonetheless. She couldn’t go back there, not after everything that had happened during and after the war. She couldn’t bring herself to go back, alone with the ghosts of her obliviated childhood. Instead, she had nearly begged Harry to let her stay at Sirius’s old home, the one he had left in his will for Harry.

Her best friend had stayed with her the first three nights of summer, but the eerie silence of the house and its occupant was slowly turning him mad, while Hermione had welcomed the peace with opened arms. He had left for the Burrow with a single trunk and some promises not to tell anyone of her whereabouts. She wasn’t ready to face Ron, or the Weasley family, she was not ready to face anyone, really. She couldn’t face herself most days.

  
Harry went and came, never staying for more than a few hours to reassure himself the woman he considered his sister was actually eating. It worried him. How thin she had become. How pale her skin had turned. He could see the veins of her hands and arms underneath the greyish skin, and her cheeks, which used to be slightly round and a warm rosy colour were now hollowed in.

He was worried, but he knew with time, things would get better. With time, they would heal and be themselves again. It was hard for everyone, and if this was her way of coping with all the loss they had suffered, who was he to interfere with her grief? He would let her mourn and would welcome her back once she was ready to try and move on.

  
Staying at the Burrow was hard for him. The whole Weasley family was staying there, like old times. Only, a part of them was missing, and unfortunately would never be coming back. He would sometimes stumble upon a sobbing Molly in the kitchen or a thoughtful Ron with a pained expression in his blue eyes. He would walk in the room Hermione used to share with Ginny and find her crying herself to sleep.

But the worst part was seeing George. Seeing how lost and dead he looked without his other half. Seeing the people he considered his family in such a state left a bitter taste of regret on his tongue. So many things he could’ve done differently to prevent every death. So many things he didn’t do that lead to the death of people he cherished. When it became too much, he apparated to number 12 Grimmauld Place, only to find a different ghost between its walls.

  
Ron was doing better and better every day, but the scar was still fresh, and the pain heavily raw. Not only had he lost a brother in the battle, he felt like he had lost his two best friends also. He couldn’t look Harry in the eyes anymore. Not because he blamed him, of course not. Ron knew that nothing that happened had been Harry’s fault, he knew the war had been bigger than both Harry and Voldemort.

Ron could no longer hold his gaze because they had won but lost so much still, and the relief he felt at the sight of his best friend, alive and well only made him feel guilty for not being sadder than he already was. Because his best friend wasn’t really his best friend anymore, and the girl he loved, or thought he loved, he wasn’t so sure anymore, was nowhere to be found.

Harry assured him she was safe and well, but bloody hell did it hurt to not really know. But at the same time, some part of him was glad she wasn’t there to see him like this. He never wanted to be a burden on his friends and didn’t want to crush their grief with his own pain.

  
The Golden Trio was now a broken shell of what it used to be, but things would get better someday. They all believed, or at least hoped, it would. The war was over, and now they had to live. Hermione had been surviving for so long, unfeeling and always looking over her shoulder, that now that all of them were safe, the many emotions bubbling inside of her were too much to handle. She wanted it to stop, she had to make it stop.

  
Hermione only left Grimmauld Place once, on the fifth of June, and used the Floo Network to the Ministry of Magic. She headed straight for the courtroom on level ten, ignoring the many reporters throwing questions and praises her way, and ran down the stairs. The double doors opened at her approach, and Hermione quickly walked in, her eyes circling the black stone room before settling on the surprised face of the dark-haired wizard. She climbed up the stairs and sat next to Harry, never taking her eyes away from the slumped wizard bound to the chair placed in the centre of the room.

Harry cleared his throat and put an arm around her frail shoulders, crushing her body to his own in a warm and almost painful embrace. Holding back her tears, she put her head on his shoulder and waited. Harry would testify. She wasn’t sure she would, wasn’t sure she even could.

The members of the Wizengamot weren’t known for their sympathy, how could she face them and claim a reformed Death Eaters’ innocence when she could barely face her best friend, the man that knew everything there was to know about her, the friend that had been there for her through every struggle? The Wizengamot called Harry’s name, and he quickly rose to his feet and approached the members’ bench.

“State your name.” Spoke one of the witches clad in a deep burgundy robe.

“Harry Potter, here to testify in favour of the accused.”

“You may proceed.”

Hermione could see the movements of Harry’s lips, but all she could hear was the shrill ringing in her ear. She snapped back to reality what seemed an eternity later, when she heard her name come out of her friend’s pursed lips.

“Mr. Potter, how can you claim the accused withheld your identity, and those of Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley, from other members of Lord Voldemort’s inner circle?”

“It’s quite easy to understand, really.” Harry said in a clipped tone. “He looked at the three of us, and he said he didn’t recognize our faces.”

“But didn’t you say earlier that Miss Granger had hit you with a jinx, thus rendering you unrecognizable?” Asked another wizard in a derisive tone.

“My face was messed up. But Ron and Hermione looked perfectly normal, and Draco Malfoy refused to identify us.”

“Couldn’t he have simply … not recognized them?” Asked the same wizard. “The four of you were never close back in Hogwarts. Past records even confirm that Mister Malfoy and your trio either avoided or insulted one another. After not seeing your face for so many months, perhaps his memory just failed him?”

Harry clenched his fist and threw a quick glance at the ghost of a man sitting stiffly in the chair behind him. Draco’s grey eyes were fixed on the floor, his arms limp under the bonds that held his whole frame. The Draco Malfoy Harry was now looking at was nothing like the Draco Malfoy he had known at Hogwarts, but it was still a better version than the shattered soul he had been at Malfoy Manor. Turning back to face the Wizengamot, Harry replied.

“He chose not to give away our identity. Just like he chose to protect Hermione from being crushed by the chandelier of the manor’s drawing room.”

Hermione frowned.

“Please explain yourself, Mr. Potter.”

“As you all must know by now, the three of us barely escaped thanks to a house elf that created a diversion. Dobby unscrewed the chandelier while Bellatrix Lestrange and Hermione were standing underneath. Bellatrix jumped in time, but since Hermione was unconscious, it would have crushed her. Neither Ron nor I had a wand, and I jumped to try and get to Hermione before it was too late. But I wasn’t fast enough, I was too far away, I— … I wouldn’t have been able to get her away in time if Draco Malfoy hadn’t used one of the wands Bellatrix had taken from us to stop its fall before it crushed her to death.”

Hermione heard a gasp, and it was only when Harry snapped his head her way that she realized she had been the one to make the sound. He had never told her the reason she was still alive was because Draco Malfoy had saved her life, she had always assumed they had gotten lucky, once more. This time, she was unable to stop the tear from silently sliding down her cheek.

“I don’t claim that Draco Malfoy has never done anything wrong. Because he did.” Continued Harry. “He was forced into an impossible situation, then he simply tried to survive. Isn’t that what we all did? Try to survive? We were just lucky to be born on the right side of the war. He didn’t have this opportunity. He may have made the wrong choice in joining Voldemort’s side, but it was a decision based on survival, and not on prejudice. He is facing an extremely harsh sentence for someone who has never used the Unforgivable Curses willingly, and yet, you are judging him as if he has killed someone. Draco was underage when he took the mark, and it had been made clear that it was either joining the Death Eaters, or watching his whole family die before getting killed himself. Try to remember you are judging the decisions of a child when you come to an agreement.”

Harry nodded before turning on his heels and making his way towards a speechless Hermione. He had just reached the first step leading him to the bench where Hermione sat when the witch jumped on her feet. Harry froze. The members of the Wizengamot turned her way questioningly.

“I would like to testify in favour of the accused.” She spoke loudly.

~

_Welcome to this story everyone! As of now, only the prologue is available, but more chapters will soon follow! I have been thinking about writing this fanfic for a while now, and finally decided it was time to do it. Seeing as I'm quite busy with university, I will try to update at least once a week on Thursdays. Try being the key word here, okay? Please don't hold it against me if I fail to update weekly, I'm doing my best._


	2. Head Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the first chapter of Aftermath. First of all, I want to thank everyone that has taken the time to read, comment and leave kudos! It means a lot to me that you guys enjoy my writing and it gets me excited to write more chapters! As promised, the next chapter will be up next Thursday. I hope you will enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. 

Hermione sat by herself in the train compartment, staring at the scenery out the Hogwarts Express window without really seeing any of it. She was lost deep in thoughts, her fingers clutching her sleeve-covered forearm, nails sharp enough to pierce the skin through the fabric of her jumper. Her stomach was in knots, and the bitter taste of regret rested on her tongue.

A part of herself was glad to go back to a familiar place, her second home. But the other part of her was terrified to head back to the place that fuelled so many of her nightmares. For the first time in her life, Hermione didn’t feel strong enough to face her demons.

And the Head Girl badge pinned on her crimson robes didn't help in reducing her unease. She had always dreamed of being Head Girl, ever since she had first stepped foot in the school those many years ago. But now, the title seemed pointless, ridiculous. So many of her friends and school peers had lost their lives in the battle, and yet there she sat, unharmed. Life was unfair.

But the hopeful tone of McGonagall’s letter had convinced her to return to Hogwarts, as was expected from the Brightest Witch of Her Age, and to accept – although reluctantly – the title. When the castle’s owl had delivered her letter in mid-July, informing her of her new role and the required books and supplies for the new term, Hermione had felt the numbness slip away for the first time in weeks. All she could feel as she stared at the piece of parchment was anger.

Under any other circumstance, she would have been ecstatic at the idea of being named Head Girl, the role _belonged_ to her, it always had. But everything felt like a farce. Hermione didn’t know what angered her more; the fact that after six years of foolishly dreaming of becoming Head Girl, she had now made it and could not even bring herself to revel in her achievement, or the fact that everyone around her had no trouble pretending things could ever be normal again.

The title of Head Boy had been offered to Harry, who had been quick to decline it, praying for an uneventful year for once. He didn't want any of the attention, his “war hero” status was bothering him enough as it was. Upon his refusal, the title had been offered to Neville, and he had accepted, encouraged by his grandmother.

The new Head Boy had sat in an awkward silence in front of Hermione for the first hour of the trip to the castle, his leg bouncing up uncontrollably because of the nerves. The silence of his friend had bothered and worried him at the same time, and after a while, he had stood up and left the compartment to introduce himself to the prefects. Not that Hermione minded, she preferred being left alone.

To soon for her liking, the train came to a stop and she had to help the prefects and Hagrid lead the new students to the Great Hall. She reluctantly left her seat and exited the train quickly, walking towards the man who had welcomed her to Hogwarts what felt like an eternity ago. The half giant smiled brightly as she approached, but all she could offer him was a half-pained smile. His brows furrowed, but Hagrid didn't say anything, settling instead for a firm squeeze of the witch’s shoulder.

~

Once the feast was done and over with, Hermione jumped to her feet and, not saying goodbye to any of her friends, walked towards the professors' table. Ginny and Harry exchanged a worried glance at her abrupt exit, but Ron didn't hold back.

"What's got _her_ wand in a knot?" He grunted after swallowing a mouthful of dessert.

He narrowed his eyes at the furious glaze his sister was throwing him and continued.

"What? I mean, she gives no sign of life all summer long and now she completely ignores us. I only heard from her once, and it was from that article on the trials in the bloody Prophet! What did I- _we_ do wrong?"

Harry sighed before answering.

"I don't think we did anything wrong, Ron. I guess she just needs some time to herself. She'll be back in no time, you'll see."

"And she's probably just nervous to be back here." Added Ginny. "After all, our last memories of this place aren't exactly all that great."

Ronald's only answer was a shrug, and he turned his head sideways to stare at Hermione as she stood at the professors’ table. She was still the most beautiful witch he had ever met, and the strongest too. But something was different about her, and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what.

He shook his head clear. He was imagining things, after all, he hadn't seen her since the war. Of course, she looked different: she hadn't gained much of the weight she had lost while they were on the run, but her eyes were different. Then they held a terrified gleam, but now...

Bloody hell he couldn't tell. Still beautiful but maybe a bit more reserved? Perhaps that was it. She may be a bit off, but she was still his Hermione, the girl he was in love with. Her back was turned to the students in the Great Hall as Hermione faced Professor McGonagall.

"Is there a problem, Miss Granger."

"Of course not, Professor. I was simply wondering where was located the Heads' common room?"

"Considering you and Mr. Longbottom are both Gryffindors, the use of the room seemed unnecessary."

"Oh." Her mind jumped to her night terrors.

"Is that a problem?"

"No, Professor." She replied politely, while thinking the opposite.

"Very well. You are expected to round the halls with the Prefects tonight, to set the example for the rest of the patrols. You should go lie down dear, you seem a bit pale."

Hermione nodded, her eyes glued to the floor, then turned on her heels. As she passed her friends, she smiled tightly and said.

"Neville and I will be patrolling tonight. I'm going to lie down a bit since I'll be up late. See you guys tomorrow."

Without waiting for an answer, she left the room though the double doors of the Great Hall.

~

She could feel the exhaustion in her bones, but sleep was evading her, and Hermione felt as if she had been staring at the ceiling for hours when the sound of the portrait door swinging open and hitting the wall finally made her jump out of her trance.

A few seconds passed, then the sound of many footsteps could be heard in the Gryffindor common room below her dormitory, where new and returning students were gathering for the annual Gryffindor start of term celebrations.

Hermione swallowed hard, a migraine already pounding at her temples as the first note of a rock tune resonated from the old enchanted record player the Weasley twins had found in Filch’s office during her third year at the school. After the twins had left Hogwarts, the parties had been a little less loud and chaotic, but the noise was still unbearable while in her state.

She slowly sat up in bed and cast a silencing charm on her room. Silence. She embraced it. Releasing a sigh, she rubbed at her forehead while counting her breaths.

_One … two … three…_

When the migraine finally dulled down to a painful but bearable headache, she stood up and put on her Gryffindor robe, readying herself for her first and only patrol of the halls. Before she had the chance to leave the room she shared with Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown and Fay Dunbar, she caught movement out of the corner of her eyes and stopped to stare at her reflection in the mirror.

She looked tired, and noticed that when you stared long enough, you’d see that the clothes she had once filled nicely now hung unflatteringly on her too-thin body. Unbuttoning her robe, then her blouse, she glanced at her uncovered chest; her protruding collarbones and ribs weren’t hard to miss in the nude, but Hermione had taken a liking to oversized jumpers as of lately not to alarm her friends any more than they already were.

The sight didn’t bother her anymore. All she could focus on was that ugly deep scar. The one reminding her of everything she had done, the one forcing her to wear long-sleeved jumper even during hot summer nights, the one branding her on her left forearm. The edges of the word were still raw and red, and Hermione closed her eyes to try and keep herself from scratching at the cuts. She quickly dressed herself, putting on a wool jumper under her robes to hide her frail body as much as she could and walked out of her dormitory.

Downstairs, the festivities were in full swing. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and glanced around the room. Harry had Ginny sitting on his lap in the corner of the room, their foreheads touching, a soft smile on their lips, and she quickly glanced away as to not disturb the intimacy bubble the couple was in.

She saw Ron playing what seemed to be a game of Exploding Snap with Seamus and Dean, a half-finished bottle of Firewhiskey sitting on the table in front of them, while some fifth-year girls were dancing and singing on top of the couch and clutching a bottle of champagne.

Smiling tightly, she quickly found Neville in the crowd and walked to him. He was leaning on the wall beside the fireplace, a pint of butterbeer in his hand. Seeing her approach him, he quickly placed his glass on a side table and threw her a nervous smile.

“Should we stop them?” He asked her when she reached him.

“No, let them enjoy themselves. And if you want to stay a bit, I wouldn’t mind covering the early shift. We could switch places later on tonight?”

“Are you sure, Mione?”

“Positive. Go and enjoy a drink, Neville. But do please try and keep them from partying too hard. I don’t want Gryffindor to lose any point before term has even properly begun.”

Neville chuckled and looked around the room, before finally taking his eyes back to Hermione, a warm smile on his lips.

“I’ll be on my way then. See you later, Neville.”

She smiled at him and walked out the portrait door. The halls were empty, and the sounds of her steps resonated down the corridors. Glancing at her watch, she realized she only had a few minutes left to meet the prefects at their scheduled meet up point and picked up her pace.

Soon enough, she found herself standing in front of the Great Hall’s doors, slightly out of breath. She explained to the prefects that Neville would meet them at the end of their patrol to walk them back to their respective common rooms, and then assigned each pair a section of the castle.

“If you ever run into a situation where an intervention is needed, trust your gut. Our role is not to punish, but to set the example for the other students of this school. Now, if no one has questions, we should get going. I will try to patrol as much of the school as I can, so we will eventually cross paths tonight. If you ever need my help, or a tip, don’t hesitate to ask. Good night everyone.”

She quickly took off towards the east wing, the two fifth year prefects walking at her side.

Hours later, Hermione was still patrolling, and she hadn’t crossed paths with anyone but the prefects. It was well past midnight, and the prefects had long been relieved of their duties by Neville, who most certainly had gone back to bed. Looking at her surroundings, she realized her feet had carried her to the dimly lit corridor she only used for her lessons with Professor Sinistra.

She quickly climbed up the spiral staircase leading to the astronomy tower, and a chill ran up her spine. She had always loved the tower and its view of the night sky. But she hadn’t set foot in it since the war, and some part of her feared the memories she would have to face if she ever reached the top of those stairs. Shaking her head slightly to clear her mind, she climbed the final steps and looked around the room.

Only lit by the moonlight, it seemed eerie, and Hermione felt goosebumps run up her arms as the wind picked up. She huffed, her breath creating a white cloud in the cold air, rubbed her arms and walked towards the railing. Leaning against it, she raised her head to stare at the dark sky and soon found the eagle-like constellation Aquila.

Closing her left eye, she slowly raised her pointed her hand at the skies and traced the lines of stars. Ever since her first Astronomy class, Hermione had learned to enjoy the beauty of the night sky and its mysterious depth and had even shown her parents her knowledge using the same trick she was using now. Dropping her arm, Hermione was about to locate a second line of stars when she heard the sound of a crash behind her.

“Lumos.” Hermione cast while spinning on her heels.

Her wand raised and her body in a protective stance, she took slow steps towards the noise. The familiar sight of pale white skin and silver-blonde hair made her frown, and she lowered her wand a bit. He looked slightly better than he did back in June, and even though she knew he would be back at Hogwarts, she was still shocked to come face to face with him.

She had read in the Daily Prophet that thanks to Harry’s testimony—and hers, she had to remind herself—that the Malfoy heir had been released from Azkaban under certain conditions, one of them being his return to the wizarding school to get a proper education and graduate. After his graduation, he would be put on house arrest for a probation period of two years, with restricted use of magic and weekly visits to the Auror Office at the Ministry. He was also forbidden to go back to Malfoy Manor seeing as his mother was currently purging her sentence in their old home.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, Malfoy?” She asked rather harshly, surprising herself with her tone.

The boy, who was crouching down trying to untangle himself from the ropes and chains hanging from the retractable roof, stopped struggling and answered without even lifting his head.

“And shouldn’t you be patrolling the halls, Granger?”

“Actually, I’m done for tonight. Not that I have to explain myself to anyone, much less to you.”

Raising from the ground, Draco’s eyes finally met Hermione’s and a small smirk lifted the corners of his lips.

“Then I guess we are both breaking the rules. Never thought I’d live to see the day Granger would finally stop acting like a goody two shoes.”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Instead she stared at him, at his familiar traits; pale grey eyes, his light skin, his silver hair… He hadn’t changed much since the war. The haunted look was still in his eyes, and his posture still reeked of arrogance and pride. Perhaps less than it used to, but it was still there.

No, what had really caught her attention was the infamous Draco Malfoy smirk. She had seen it plenty of times before and would recognize it anywhere. But this smirk was different from any she had seen before. There was no hate behind his lips, no scorn. Only what seemed like … playfulness? No. That was impossible. Draco Malfoy hated her just as much as she hated him. She shook her head subtlety and answered.

“And here I never thought I’d see the day when Draco Malfoy would stop acting like a cowardly jerk. Oh, but wait. That never happened, did it?” She asked on a scoff.

Instantly the grin dropped. Draco frowned and spat out.

“Excuse me.”

Then he turned on his heels and walked down the stairs of the astronomy tower, as silently as he had climbed them earlier. Hermione ran to the handrails and stared at the moving form.

“And that will be twenty points from Slytherin for being out after curfew.” She yelled before she could stop herself.

Hermione heard Malfoy scoff, but he didn’t stop his descent and soon he was out of her sight. Gripping the railings so tight her knuckles turned white, Hermione scolded herself for letting the sodding ferret affect her so much. She promised herself that she would not waste another second of her life being affected by Malfoy’s snide remarks.

He had ruined enough of her school years as it was, and she had enough issues on her plate already. The snake would stay where he was; in a forgotten part of her mind. Hermione pocketed her wand and made her way down the stairs, realizing her time wandering off had come to an end, and made her way towards her common room.


	3. The Serpent's Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, I'm back with a new chapter, in Draco's perspective. The POV will change from time to time, mainly between Hermione and Draco, but maybe someone else, who knows? Also, I don't want to disappoint anyone, but this will be somewhat of a slow-burn. Draco needs to grow up and learn to make his own choices, Hermione needs to move on, and I don't see this happening in four or five chapters... There will be ~sexual tension~, there will be smut, but after several chapters! 
> 
> I'll be back next Thursday (November 5th) with a new chapter. In the meantime, I hope you'll like the chapter, and I wish you all a happy Halloween.

Only a handful of the Slytherin students had decided to come back to Hogwarts. Many of the students who had fought during the war and suffered from its aftermath were livid to see the faces of the people who had refused to stay and defend the castle and fight for what was right, the faces of the _enemy_ , back in a place they had so gladly fled when things had turned to shit. 

The Sorting Ceremony had been a bleak affair, and the handful of newly sorted first-year Slytherin had shared a look of pure fear and shame as they sat at the long table. The house, once known for its ambition and fierce sense of pride among its students, now reeked of traitors and cowards. 

Draco Malfoy was as surprised as everyone to find himself between the walls of the castle, instead of in between the walls of a cell in Azkaban. After all, the scar on his left arm branded him as a dangerous criminal and reminded him of the side he had supported and of the choices he had made. The same choices that had led his own father rotting in a cell...

Shortly after the fall of the Dark Lord during the final battle, aurors had raided Malfoy Manor and arrested father, mother and son. He had then spent weeks in a dark cell, silenced, magicless and completely alone. 

Obviously, no one was allowed to visit the Death Eater awaiting trial, but no guards had ever approached his cell, no newspapers letting him know what was going on outside the walls of his cell, not even a whisper hinting at what was happening. Nothing. _Absolutely fucking nothing_. 

Only Draco, alone with his thoughts. And his fears. Fear of dishonouring the Malfoy name, fear of getting his mother—and to some extent, his father—killed, fear of being left in this godforsaken prison cell for the rest of his life. Then fear turned to anger. 

Rage was a better word for it really. He had trashed around, had pounded his fists on the stone walls of the cell until they were bloody and throbbing. The mark on his forearm was also throbbing. From the inflamed skin or the deep cuts from the sharp stone he had found and used to cut the edges of the snake and skull, he wasn't sure. But at least the physical pain in his arm helped him get out of his head a bit. 

It kept him grounded, kept him away from thoughts he so desperately wanted to stay away from. So he did another cut. Then another, and another, until his arm felt as numb as his head. Until he no longer felt anything. Feeling nothing was better than having to face his failure.

When the guards had finally opened the door of his cell and had led him to a small room with a showerhead and a fresh set of prison robes, Draco knew he would be facing the Wizengamot. Before returning to his cell with a life sentence in Azkaban. 

What he had not expected, was to have to listen to Saint Potter and his mugglebitch talk about him as if he were some tormented soul, forced to do unimaginable things in the means of survival. They had painted such a pitiful picture of the Malfoy boy that he had resisted the urge to get up and put an end to the farce. 

But the real treat had been Granger's testimony. As if having Harry Potter defend his actions were not enough, the words of a mudblood had actually been the one thing preventing his return to Azkaban. That had been hard to swallow. 

He hated Azkaban, but owing his semblance of freedom to the Granger witch left the most disgusting taste on his tongue. He briefly wondered if rotting in a cell would be a better choice, but _wisely_ chose not to speak his thoughts at the trial.

Then the verdict had been announced, and Draco's magical signature had been linked to so many scrolls of parchment he had lost count. He had been assigned to a ministry safe house, his wand had been confiscated for the rest of summer and they had told him it was either going back to Hogwarts for a final year then two more years of house arrest, or three full years in Azkaban. 

The choice had been easy, but he had been far from happy to go back to the pathetic excuse of a school. If only his mother had agreed to send him to Durmstrang when he had turned eleven. Maybe all of this mess wouldn't have happened then. Maybe the Malfoy name would still mean something.

Draco was bitter, having hoped to never cross the threshold of the wizarding school ever again. He was furious to be back in the place that reminded him of his failure, but most importantly, the looks of disgust thrown his way were pissing him off more and more by the second. Malfoys had always been looked upon, never down.

His surname used to reflect respect, dignity even fear. Now that people were looking down at Draco and not the other way around, Hogwarts was the last place he wanted to be. The Malfoy name had never been associated to shame, and his only response was to keep a permanent scowl on his face and keep to himself.

His only hope remained in the Slytherin students that he could still call his friends. Only barely. When he learned some of the Slytherins in his year had also taken the opportunity to complete their studies, he had innocently hoped things in the Slytherin common room could go back to how they used to be. 

But he soon realized that war had changed _everyone,_ and the few Slytherins that were back were ecstatic at the idea of redeeming themselves. Even Pansy Parkinson, the most conniving and spiteful girl he had the misfortune of meeting, had become a different person. Draco wouldn't be surprised to see the witch roll on her back like a good girl at the snap of a blood traitor's fingers. 

The war had changed her, and Blaise Zabini had even been the one to piece her back together after her father's death during the war. Out of the four returning Slytherin "eight years", Zabini was the only wizard who had never begged for the attention and friendship of Draco Malfoy, instead preferring the company of less entitled and blood purity focused people. 

The last Slytherin student was Theodore Nott, bloody pissed at his late father, who hadn't been the kindest of parents during his younger years. He had forced his beliefs on his son, whenever he was not hitting or completely ignoring his only son, and Theo didn't know who and what to believe anymore. 

But the four of them were and would always be a family, no matter their affiliations. They would stand together no matter what. Slytherins always stayed together, and always protected one another, no question asked.

On the first morning of class, the four of them walked together to the Great Hall to catch a quick breakfast. The moment the doors opened, conversations died down, and soon, it felt like every pair of eyes in the Great Hall was on them.

Some were staring with a hateful glare, while others—like Hermione Granger—had averted their eyes as quickly as possible. The four Slytherins stopped in their tracks and stared back, an all too familiar look of superiority etched on their face that quickly disappeared. Defence mechanism or force of habits, it was hard to tell these days.

Pansy was the first one to snap out of it, and she walked straight to the end of the long Slytherin table, followed suit by Zabini, who put a protective hand on her lower back. Theodore rolled his eyes and followed them, grumbling something that awfully sounded like lovesick fools in a room full of gits, causing an involuntary chuckle to slip out of Draco's scowling lips. 

He watched as Pansy and Blaise sat down next to a few fifth-year students in their house. The younger students wasted no time getting up from their seats and moved down to join other people. _More respectable people_. 

That had never happened before. Draco was used to the looks and hostility from other houses, but he couldn't believe classmates of his own house had dared to turn their back on them. 

Shifting his gaze towards the Gryffindor table, he could feel his anger, and an even more awful feeling of shame, grow at the sight of King Weasel and Saint Potter chuckling softly to themselves. Before he could see the She-Weasley kicking her brother and her boyfriend under the table, Draco turned on his heels and walked out of the room, skipping breakfast altogether.

"What was that for?" Asked Ron while rubbing his shin.

"You two didn't have to be so obviously rude. They haven't done anything wro— ..." Snapped Ginny.

"Oh, I know you were not going to say they've done nothing wrong!" Exclaimed Ron. "Or have you forgotten everything that's happened over the years? Are you forgetting their insults, and the role they played in the war? Whose family left that ... that horrible thing on Hermione's arm, do you recall? They're just as guilty as their parents."

Silence fell over the Great Hall after Ron's outburst, and Hermione felt her cheeks redden at the feeling of the hundreds of curious students' eyes on her. Dropping her spoon, she tugged slightly on the sleeves of her jumper and robe to make sure her scar was well hidden from prying eyes. Realizing his mistake, Ron stuttered.

"Not that ... that there's anything wrong with Mione, right? I mean, it's a-a scar that is, it doesn't mean anything. It's just an ugly scar." He mumbled out. "I'm really sorry, Hermione. I shouldn't have said anything."

"It's alright." She answered without really looking at him. Without really looking at anything.

"Oi, I mean it, I—." He started saying, grabbing her left arm.

Hermione hissed and pulled it away. The scar was always sensitive, and would never properly heal, and Hermione felt the fragile scar tissue rip and warm blood pool down her arm towards her finger at the sudden movement. The first droplet of blood reached her fingertips and splattered on the table. She quickly wiped it away with her finger.

"Hermione, is everything alright?" Harry was the first one to speak.

"Of course. It's just that the cuts have not healed completely yet, and it bleeds sometimes. I'll go to the Hospital Wing and ask Madam Pomfrey if she can help. Excuse me." She said rather quickly, getting up from the wooden bench.

She left the room at a fast pace, clutching her arm, and made her way towards the Grand Staircase. Only she didn't stop climbing after the fourth floor. Didn't stop to see Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing. She kept going until she had reached the seventh floor and made her way towards Gryffindor Tower. 

Once she had given the password to the Fat Lady portrait, she rushed to her dormitory, unbuttoning her robe on her way. Dropping it on the floor of her bedroom, Hermione carefully peeled off her blood-soaked blouse from her bleeding arm and grabbed her wand. 

The spell and blade Bellatrix Lestrange had used prevented any form of healing on her scar—magic or muggle—and all she could do was wrap it in gauze and take a Blood-Replenishing potion every hour until the wounds healed themselves as much as possible. Until the skin split again, then the process was to start all over again. 

Casting a quick scouring charm on her arm and blouse, Hermione wrapped her injury and dressed herself, before running down the stairs all the way to the dungeons to reach her potions class before it had begun. Being late on the first day of term was _not_ an option. It had never been, and it would never be, not for the Brightest Witch of Her Age.

Draco spent the twenty minutes before class was scheduled to begin pacing in front of the closed door, waiting for Professor Slughorn to finally show up. He walked into the room without even acknowledging the man, threw his books on the desk and slumped down on his stool. 

The four Slytherins shared the optional class with the Golden Trio and other students from the other houses, and Draco was already counting the seconds until he could escape the room. The incompetence of Slughorn didn't help with his sour mood, and Draco didn't bother listening to his lecture, choosing instead to focus on his work and essay to end the torture as fast as possible.

When Snape was still alive, and still a potions master, the class had been his favourite. And also his best. Draco actually enjoyed brewing potions. Learning about ingredients' purposes and properties. Studying which ingredients could be safely mixed together, which ingredients could not, and everything related to the art of potion making. 

But still, he would always come in second. And to that Mudblood, to make things even worse. It was the same in all of his classes, not that he enjoyed all of them as much. And now that Snape was gone, and Slughorn had replaced him, the class wasn't as entertaining as it had once been.

And it was not entirely because Snape had turned a deaf ear to all the insults Draco used to throw at the Golden Trio. He would never outright admit it, but he missed the man and his many snide comments to Scarhead and Co.

Finished with his work, he cleaned up his desk and poured his potion into a phial before standing up. After storing it in the evaluation cabinet, he returned to his table to gather his books as Seamus Finnigan rose from his seat, bumping his shoulder with Draco as the two passed each other. 

Malfoy gritted his teeth and ignored the bloody git as he grabbed his things and moved towards the door. He was just about to fling it open when the sound of glass breaking made him turn around. Finnigan was sprawled on the floor, having stumbled over a bag, and had knocked the cabinet over in his fall. Draco looked at his spilled potion on the floor and growled out.

"You have got to be _fucking_ kidding me, Finnigan."

Seamus' lips lifted in a subtle satisfied smile and Draco reached in his pocket and palmed his wand. Oh how he wanted to teach the absolute excuse of a wizard a lesson.

"Now, Mr. Malfoy, please watch your tone." Intervened the professor. "Mr. Finnigan tripped, and as unfortunate an accident as it was, you must complete the assignment. I would suggest you forget this misfortune and get back to work. You still have half an hour to complete your potion, which is more than enough time considering your talents at potion brewing."

"As if the bloody Scumsucker didn't do it on purpose!" He spat out.

Someone gasped at the slur, and Pansy rose from her stool, a look of horror on her face.

"Draco!" She exclaimed. "Please, don't." She begged quietly.

Draco scowled at her. How dare she scold him in front of the whole class? The last person to scold him had been his mother. When he was eleven years old, for fuck's sake. The four of them were supposed to have each other's back, not humiliate the other. He finally dropped the frown and rolled his eyes.

"Whatever, I'm out of here." He announced, turning on his heels.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Yelled Slughorn, flustered. "If you step out of this room, I'll have no choice but to take fifty points from Slytherin!"

Draco chuckled and walked out of the room, a smug smile on his face.

That had been satisfying.


	4. Shattered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to this week's update. Hope you enjoy it! :)  
> The next update is planned for November 12th.

After the show he had put on during their first class, Hermione knew that Malfoy would be the focus of every conversation for the rest of the day. Every time she turned a corner in the castle, she heard whispers and sniggers about the Slytherin Snake and his little tantrum during Slughorn’s class. Usually not one for rumours and bad-mouthing, Hermione had surprisingly turned a deaf ear to the insults. After all, the Slytherin boy had tormented the whole school for years, it was what he deserved. He was finally getting a taste of his own medicine.

But the news of the new DADA professor, Bill Weasley, had stolen Malfoy’s thunder. Not even Ron and Ginny had known about their brother’s position at the wizarding school and judging from the success of their first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, Bill would do an excellent teaching job. Hermione was happy for him and believed in the eldest Weasley’s capacities at teaching _useful_ spells and jinxes, unlike some of the previous professors they had.

Her day passed in a blur, but she often found herself thinking of the insolent git and had to force herself to focus on something else. On something worth her time.

~

The first week of classes went by quickly. A few minutes before curfew on the first Friday evening of term, Hermione was making her way back to Gryffindor Tower after a visit to the kitchen elves. In her hands were three cups of hot cocoa for Harry, Ron and herself. It had been months since the three of them had spent a few hours together, _only the three of them,_ and Hermione could not help but feel guilty about it. After all, she had been the one to run away after the war, and always found an excuse whenever they asked her to spend time with them.

Deep in her thoughts, she finally reached the marble staircase. She raised her head after the first few steps and froze. Her breath stuck in her throat and she felt her grip on the cups loosen, the sounds of the porcelain breaking on the floor barely noticeable over the ringing in her ears.

A large snake was making its way towards her from the top of the stairs, its body slithering down, teeth bared and hissing at Hermione. Nagini. Hermione took a step back and lost her footing as she met thin air. A surprised shriek escaped her lips as she stumbled down the stairs and landed on her back. Looking up at the staircase and noticing the beast was halfway down, Hermione tried to stand but her shaky legs wouldn’t hold her up. She backed away, crawling to get as far away from the snake, but she wasn’t nearly fast enough. Her limbs felt heavy and unresponsive, as if in a dream.

Nagini was now at the bottom of the stairs, a few paces away from a shivering Hermione, and she was ready to attack. Reaching around blindly for her wand, Hermione only managed to cut her hands on the broken porcelain tips and closed her eyes in terror, her throat finally allowing her scream to escape. Over the sounds of her screaming, Hermione heard a hiss and felt a tear escape. She knew she would not survive a second confrontation with the snake. She and Harry had barely escaped the fight in Bathilda Bagshot home. She shut her mouth and waited for the moment Nagini would sink her fangs into her throat. But the attack never came.

Hermione opened her eyes, only to find Pansy Parkinson crouching over her, a look of fear mixed with confusion in her eyes. Panting, Hermione looked around her, trying to calm her frantically beating heart. Over Pansy’s shoulder, Hermione could see the staircase. The _empty_ staircase. Nagini was dead and had been dead for a while. Neville had slain the beast during the battle. Hermione was safe now.

She closed her eyes once more, trying to stop the tears from falling, repeating the words over and over again. _I am safe now_. It wasn’t the first hallucination she had seen since the end of the war, but it definitely had been the strongest. Usually, she would hear voices, maniacal cackles… _Never_ had she seen someone—or something—coming at her. What bothered her the most was that the memory had felt so real she had actually believed her time had come up. No one would save her, and she did not even have the strength to protect and defend herself.

She could still smell the scent of death and blood around her, and her ears were still ringing from the explosions of the castle walls around her. She had _heard_ the body of Nagini slithering down the stairs, the hiss as the snake had gotten closer and closer… Hermione shook her head and nervous bits of laughter escaped from her lips unintentionally. Parkinson cleared her throat. Hermione opened her eyes sharply. She had forgotten about the Slytherin girl.

“Are you all right?” Pansy asked the frightened girl on the floor.

“Yes. Perfectly fine.” Answered Hermione, standing up. “I just lost my balance and fell down the stairs.” She added as she walked past Pansy.

The Slytherin girl grabbed Hermione’s arm softly as she walked past her, stopping her from leaving.

“You don’t seem fine to me. What happened?”

“That’s none of your business, Parkinson.” Said Hermione in a harsh tone, pulling her arm away as if the girl’s touch had burned her.

Pansy watched as Hermione ran up the staircase and disappeared around a corner. Watching after her a bit, Pansy bent down to pick up the broken pieces of porcelain the Head Girl had left behind and carried them to her dormitory to throw them in the trash. Entering the Slytherin common room after reciting the password, Pansy sat down next to Blaise on the couch in front of the fireplace. Draco was sitting on the armchair next to them, staring at the green flames, while Theo was focused on his next move at the game of Wizard’s Chess he was playing against Blaise. Pansy looked around the room to make sure they were alone and cast a silencing spell on the room to prevent any eavesdropping before speaking.

“I ran into Granger in the halls.”

Theo looked up from the chessboard.

“Since when do you call her _Granger_? She’s always been Mudblood.” Sniggered Theo. “Or Filthy Frizzy-Haired Freak. Or Buck-Teeth Beaver. Oi, do you remember —.”

“Shut up, mate.” Said Blaise as he checkmated Theo’s king.

Theo frowned at the chessboard, and with a flick of his wand, the pieces organized themselves. He _would_ win against Blaise tonight, and the wizard was not allowed to leave the room until Theo had beaten him.

“I don’t care if you want to use that word, Theo. But I won’t, and I will not tolerate you using it around me anymore. So, shut your mouth and listen.” Spat Pansy.

She looked at Draco as she saw his head turn to the side, his eyes fixed on hers.

“As I was saying, I saw _Hermione_ at the grand staircase and I don’t fully understand what happened, but the girl just froze and started screaming at nothing. She was staring at the stairs and was completely terrified.”

“So what, she’s mental. Bonkers, I’m telling you. That’s a risk of hanging out with Scarhead and Loony Lovegood.” Chuckled Theo.

“I’m serious, Theo. It was frightful you know. I’ve never seen Granger anything but stupidly brave and clearheaded. That girl on the floor was not the Granger we are used to dealing with. She looked br-broken,” she added hesitantly, “and I feel bad, guilty even.”

Theo scoffed but Blaise nodded his head at what his girlfriend was saying.

“I know how you feel, love, I feel the same. We didn’t do much during the battle. We didn’t join the Death Eaters, but we didn’t help the good side defeat Voldemort either. We didn’t help save injured people. We didn’t help evacuate underage students. Not taking the Dark Lord’s side was a step forward in the good direction—the _right_ direction—but it won’t be enough. They won’t just forgive and forget everything we’ve done over the years.”

Theo laughed as he ordered one of his pawns to move on the board.

“Oh, you should hear yourself, mate. It sounds as if you want to apologize to these tossers.”

“That’s exactly what we’re saying.” Answered Pansy, her jaw clenched tight as she glared at her friend.

“You can’t be serious! They hate us, we hate them. That’s how it’s meant to be.” Theo said with a chuckle. “And even if we did apologize, not that I think we should or anything, but what then? What makes you think they would accept our apology? You think everything would be forgotten and we’d all go together to Hogsmeade for a pint of Butterbeer? Maybe you’re the one who has turned mental, Pansy…”

“They may not, but we owe them an apology. The least we could do is admit our faults and try and make things right.” She whispered-yelled. “What about you Draco? You haven’t said anything. Don’t you think you owe them some explanation, an apology? The three of us know you’re feeling guilty about your role in the war. Wouldn’t you love to have a fresh start? To have a new chance at being decent? I’ve been a bitch to everyone here for seven years, and you weren’t an angel either. It’s time we stop acting like spoiled children and actually try and think for ourselves.”

Draco stared at her for minutes that felt like hours, lips tightly shut. Finally, he said.

“I do feel guilty, Pansy. I also feel angry. And confused, and…”

Draco sighed, eyes closing as he shook his head.

“Of course, I wish things had gone differently. For all of us. But you are dafter than I thought if you truly believe they will accept you with only an apology.” He scoffed.

“Piss off, Draco! I know it’ll take more than an apology, arsehole! But at least it’s a start.”

“Whatever, Parkinson.” Muttered Draco, his eyes rolling before turning his gaze towards the flames once more.

The conversation was boring him.

Yes, he wished things had been different. Yes, he often wondered how things could have been if he’d manage to make Harry Potter laugh as the two eleven-year-old boys had been getting their Hogwarts robes fitted. Yes, he had asked himself once what his life would be like if he had grown up in Potter’s trainers instead of his own dragon hide dress shoes.

But life had not turned out that way. It was simple as that. And there was really no point in wondering and thinking of what-ifs. He was Draco Malfoy for Salazar’s sake. He was not some bloody scarred orphan, and he was fucking glad to be exactly who he was. One of the few things he had left was his pride. He would be the last person to _apologize_. He had always done what was expected of him. Expected of the Malfoy heir. Not a thing to feel sorry for there.

Pansy shook her head disapprovingly and moved her gaze away from her friends. She regretted everything she had done, everything she had said since her first train ride to Hogwarts. But the war had scarred everyone and made her realize everything her parents had taught her, every thought and prejudice she had held against her classmates were wrong.

Coming back to Hogwarts had been her choice, and she wanted to show everyone that the woman she was finally allowed to be wasn’t tainted by her parents’ ideals and insults anymore. She had learned from the war and was ready to face the consequences of her actions.

She got up from the couch and left for her empty dormitory, settling down in her cold canopy bed. The beds that used to be filling the room were now gone, the other girls from her year had either died or had chosen not to return for the school year.

The door clicked open, and Blaise silently walked in. Pushing back the covers for him, Pansy stared at the dark ceiling, tears of frustration rolling down her cheeks. Blaise slipped in under the duvet without a word, put a silencing charm on the girls’ dormitory and Pansy finally let go of everything she had been holding back.

~

Hermione spat the password at the Fat Lady and quickly slipped in the Gryffindor common room when the door finally opened after a sigh of exasperation. Harry and Ron were sitting on the couch in front of the fire, and both of their heads turned at the sound of the door banging on the stone walls. Ron was the first to notice the manic look in Hermione’s eyes as she sat down between the two of them. He threw a worried glance Harry’s way, before clearing his throat.

“Are you feeling well, Mione?”

“The cups of cocoa. I dropped them. I fell down the stairs and dropped them.” She answered, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames.

“Are you hurt?” Ron blurted out in a worried tone, fingers itching to reach out to the witch beside him.

Finally coming to herself, Hermione’s head snapped up and she furrowed her brows at Ron.

“No, I—.”

“You’re bleeding, Hermione.” Whispered Harry as he grabbed her left hand, palm facing up.

A dozen cuts all over her palms, fingers and wrists, and Hermione couldn’t feel a thing. Harry palmed her wand and muttered a healing spell and she watched as her wounds healed themselves. The scouring charm cleaned the blood from her hands and Harry wrapped his hand around her small fists.

“What happened, Hermione?”

“I thought I heard something, and I lost my balance. I swear I’m alright.”

A worried scowl met her eyes and she quickly averted them, glancing at the fire and ignoring her two best friends. She heard a sigh to her left and felt Ron’s arm wrap around her shoulders while Harry twisted in his seat to lay his chin on top of her unruly curls.

“We’re here for you. Whenever you’re ready to talk, we’ll be here to listen.” Said Ron in a hoarse voice.

Hermione nodded, holding back her tears, eyes unblinking and watching the flames.

“I know that. I just don’t think I’m ready yet. I _can’t_ right now.”

Harry pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and added.

“We love you, Hermione. Whatever it is, we’ll always do.”

This time, she could not hold back her sobs.

~

After what felt like hours of staring at the darkened ceiling, listening to the light snores and breaths of her roommates, Hermione’s eyes finally shut as exhaustion took over her body. But her sleep was anything but peaceful. She had grown used to the persistent nightmares that took over her mind when she was lying in bed. After all, the bad dreams had been chasing her for weeks now. Back in the first months of summer, she had started taking sleeping potions to help with her night terrors. But the sleeping potions didn’t stop the nightmares. They only put her into a deeper sleep, making it more difficult for her to wake up.

Accepting the nightmares were there to stay, her next best option was to avoid sleeping altogether. She had tried to stay awake for as long as she could, often not sleeping for days, hoping the fatigue would offer a dreamless sleep. But that never worked, either. Whatever she tried, the nightmares wouldn’t bulge, she simply had to accept it.

More often than not, she would wake up screaming, clutching at her throat or her bloodied arm, and silently cry herself back to sleep. Back then, she didn’t bother placing a silencing charm on her room, as no one was around to hear her screams. But ever since she had returned to the school, she had to find ways to silence herself during her sleep, otherwise the girls sleeping around her would die of a heart attack at the sounds coming from her throat.

Placing a silencing charm around a room was something she had never struggled with, but the tricky part was to silence only the air around her canopy bed without affecting the other sleeping girls. And she always waited for her roommates to fall asleep first, not wanting to explain why she felt the need to place the incantation to her nosy Gryffindor classmates.

When sleep finally claimed her, the nightmares began, and as usual, she woke up with a scream, her body rising from the bed in a jump. She tried to catch her breath while running a hand through her sweat-soaked hair and froze when a candle on her left was lit. Turning towards the light, her eyes met the shocked glance of Lavender Brown.

Hermione gulped, trying to rid herself of her dry throat and threw a shaky smile at Lavender, whose brows furrowed at the sight. Looking around the room at the still sleeping bodies of Fay and Parvati, Hermione brushed the sweat off her brow and glanced at Lavender, who was still watching her.

She knew she hadn’t made a sound. She watched as Lavender’s lips moved, but no sound reached her. Her spell was still up. She quickly grabbed her wand from the bedside table and lifted it.

“What the hell was that?” Asked Lavender in a whisper yell.

“I’m sorry, Lavender. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Hermione apologized. “It was only a nightmare.”

“Only a nightmare?” Asked Lavender, before scoffing in disbelief. “You were thrashing around your bed and you shot up so quickly I nearly had a heart attack!”

Hermione looked at her dishevelled sheets and the throw pillows that had fallen on the floor and turned back towards Lavender, an apologetic smile on her face.

“Do you… Do they happen often? The nightmares?” Lavender asked hesitantly.

Hermione was about to shake her head and reassure the other girl when she stopped herself. In the flickering light of the candlestick, the marks were faint, but still noticeable on Lavender’s arms and neck. Werewolf claw marks. Quickly averting her gaze from the scars, she instinctively grabbed her own arm and winced.

If someone in this room could understand her nightmares—bloody hell, even have some of her own—it would be Lavender. She had never particularly liked the girl, finding her obnoxiously loud and shallow. But that but Lavender was long gone, and the woman sitting on her bed in front of her was a more reserved and mature version of the girl Hermione had once been so jealous of. The thought amused her now. How juvenile they had all been, and how things had so drastically changed in such a short time.

“I guess so, yes.” She answered her question with a slow nod of her head. 

“I’m sorry.” Lavender said.

She also knew how it felt to be terrified of closing her eyes. Of reliving your most awful memories.

“I am too.” She said with a sad smile.

Hermione bent down to pick up the pillows from the floor.

“Seeing as we are both awake and not planning on going back to sleep, what do you say we go down to the common room and just chat.” Lavender suggested. “Or stay silent if you prefer.” She added when she saw the grimace on Hermione’s face.

She chuckled humourlessly. “I don’t really feel like talking, Lavender. But sitting by the fire could be nice.”

Lavender smiled and threw her covers off her legs, then blew on the candle, turning the room pitch black.

~

A week passed and sitting by the fire in the early morning hours became their routine. Sometimes Hermione would wake up and join an already awake Lavender, and other times it would be the other way around. They wouldn’t speak of their nightmares. Never. They didn’t need to know the other’s fears to understand the terror they felt when their demons took control over their mind.

Hermione never would have thought to find comfort in Lavender Brown, out of all people. Having someone to share her fears with was a relief, but sometimes, the urge to be alone was overbearing. Although Lavender never pried, Hermione sensed her curiosity. Her own scars were not visible, not like Lavender’s. They were easier to hide. But Hermione wasn’t comfortable just yet sharing anything with her classmate.

And she often felt guilty for seeking comfort in a complete stranger when her friends were so desperate to help her move on. She was simply unable to talk to them, unable to ruin their joy of surviving the war with her own traumatic memories. Ron and Harry had been through too much already, and she believed in her capacities at dealing with her issues on her own.

When the urge to be alone became overbearing, she would sneak out of Gryffindor Tower and climb the spiral staircase of the astronomy tower and sit at the edge, her legs over the edge and hanging above the ground below. The nights up there were colder, and she found comfort in Molly’s hand-knitted jumpers, either hers’ or even Ron’s old ones. She missed her best friend.

While they were on the run, and for a few days after the final battle, she had entertained the thought that their friendship could grow into something … more. But nothing had come out of the kiss they had shared in the heat of the battle.

Thinking about it now, kissing Ron felt both comforting and wrong at the same time, and it had confused her greatly. Comfortingly familiar because he was a constant part of her life and she felt safe around him. But also wrong because the spark she thought she had felt for him while growing up had died down the second their lips had met, and she felt as if she was kissing a distant relative. Even worse, it felt as if she was kissing Harry, whom she considered her brother.

Shuddering at the memory, she watched the sun rise over the horizon, and quietly made her way back to her room before anyone could notice she was gone during the night. Quick to leave, she did not notice the grey eyes that were following her every movement from a dark corner of the room, where the morning light hadn’t reached yet.

Sighing in frustration, Draco waited a few minutes before taking the same stairs, angry at the Mudblood. He would have to find another room to spend his sleepless nights, seeing as the astronomy tower was already Granger’s. No way in hell would he spend his free time with the witch, even if she had no idea he had been there in the first place.


	5. Trials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! Really sorry for the delay, this week has been a bit busier than expected and I didn't have as much time to write as I had hoped. I hope you'll like this one, even though it's a bit of a filler to get the plot moving. I also wanted to thank everyone that has left kudos and comments. It means a lot :)  
> I'll be back next Thursday with a new chapter!  
> Gabrielle xx

The whispers and sniggers followed him everywhere. It was infuriating really, and Draco was close to fucking losing it. Oh, how easy it would be to simply draw his wand and send a wordless jinx at the bloody morons. Too easy, really. After all, how hard could it be to cast a stinging hex after having been forced to use Crucios and Avadas by the Dark Lord?

And the bloody gits that kept on riling him up, unaware that behind his scowl, Draco was imagining all the ways he would put them in their place. If only he could. But the ministry had been clear, and even though he would never admit it out loud, Draco was tired of fighting. Tired of pretending he held any pride in his name anymore. But what else was there to do? Nothing.

The witches and wizards the Malfoys had called friends were now either dead or locked up, and the Wizarding World had shunned the lot of them that had managed to get out of the mess the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters had created by remaining neutral. Draco didn’t fit in any of those categories.

No, he was on his own, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t welcome the solitude. He could only keep his chin up and scowl in annoyance. He had become pretty good at it over the years.

Now that Granger had claimed the Astronomy Tower as her own for her all-nighters, the only place he could think of to be left alone was the second-floor girl’s lavatory. Even Moaning Myrtle avoided him now, and he didn’t know if that should be a relief or an insult.

The last time he had been in that bathroom was during his sixth year, and the dead girl had been a real fucking pain in his arse then. What did it say about him if even the most annoying ghost he had ever met hated him like everyone else?

He quickly discarded the thought. His time in the lavatory was the only one he had all to himself. The only time when he could think about nothing, worry about nothing and stop pretending things were fine. Nothing was, and nothing would ever be again.

When he was not in class, Draco was either in the Great Hall eating, in his dormitory sleeping, or in the bathroom avoiding everyone. Sometimes Blaise, Pansy or Theo would try to get him to come back to the Slytherin common room with them, or go on a walk around the Great Lake, or anything really to convince him to stop hiding.

He always refused, preferring to spend his free time in the gloomy bathroom on the second floor. But after a few weeks, Theo stopped him as he was about to leave the common room to grab a bit to eat before his first class of the day. 

“I see you’ve finally decided to join us mere mortals, mate. Welcome back. Don’t worry, I’ll cheer you on, just like those American muggle cheerleaders. You know, the ones with the tiny skirts and the pom-poms? I’m sure I can convince Pansy to wear the costume with me, but you and I both know it’s my legs and arse you’ll be staring at Malfoy. I’m way better looking than Pansy.”

“Heard that, tosser!” Scoffed a narrow-eyed Pansy as Blaise and she joined the two other Slytherins as they were climbing out of the common room’s portrait hole.

She smacked Theo on the back of his head when she reached his side, and he winced in pain.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Pans. I was only kidding.”

The witch threw him a mocking smile and turned his attention to the blond wizard on her left.

“I way not wear a sodding cheerleader’s outfit, but I’ll definitely be there to cheer you on, Draco.”

Draco’s frown deepened.

“What, exactly, are you two on about?”

Theo and Pansy quickly glanced at each other.

“The Slytherin Quidditch try-out sheet on the notice board? You know, the one with your signature on it for the position of Seeker? I’m glad you’re getting back into Quidditch, mate! Slytherin will definitely win know that you’ll be back on the team.” Theo answered.

“I beg your pardon?” Hissed Draco.

“The trials this Saturday? Did you already forget, or...?”

“I never signed my bloody name! I’m not playing Quidditch.”

“Well…” Started Pansy, a smirk pulling at her lips. “ _Someone_ signed your name, and the entire house has now seen it. For Salazar’s sake, the whole bloody school probably already knows about it. You can’t really back out now, can you?”

“Fucking hell, Pansy, if you wrote my name on that sodding piece of parchment, I’ll hex you into next year!”

“Of course, I didn’t. Blaise did, right babe?” She answered with satisfied smile on her lips.

Draco turned his icy gaze towards the wizard and spat.

“You fucking didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did.” Blaise finally said, a sly smile growing on his lips and an excited glint in his dark eyes. “It’ll do you good to spend some time outside of your bathroom, Malfoy. It’s fine, you can thank me later.”

Theo sniggered.

“Actually, I even added Theo’s name this morning. He’s always chasing trouble, so I figured he would be good at chasing a Quaffle.”

Theo’s chuckles stopped.

“Piss off, Blaise. You know I hate heights!”

“Must have slipped my mind.”

Draco let an amused snigger escape his lips but quickly concealed it in a cough when Pansy’s head turned his way, a satisfied look on her face. Truth be told, he missed Quidditch. It was one of the few things he had enjoyed for himself, and not because his father had told him so.

Growing up, flying and playing Quidditch had been his favourite thing to do. And he was actually really good at it then. But the odds had always been in Potter’s favour, both in life and in the game.

And being part of the Slytherin Quidditch team had soon been on his father’s list of things to do to prove to Harry Potter that the pureblood family was better at everything they did. Pleasing his father had been Draco’s number one priority back then, but now that Lucius was out of the picture, Draco would finally be allowed to just enjoy the game without turning it into a pissing contest.

~

Saturday arrived quickly, and Draco was up before dawn, his Quidditch jersey on, ready for the trials. Theo was mumbling in the corner of the dormitory, still pissed at Blaise for writing his name on the bloody signup piece of parchment. The two of them silently left the common room and walked to the Great Hall.

Only three other students were awake so early on a Saturday morning, all of them clad in silver and green jerseys. Ignoring the dirty looks thrown their way, Draco and Theo sat down at the Slytherin table to catch a quick breakfast before they had to leave for the pitch. Draco poured himself a cup of black coffee, not being able to stomach any food so early in the morning, while Theo fixed himself a full plate of toasts, sausages, eggs, baked beans and tomatoes.

Draco grimaced as the other Slytherin scoffed down his breakfast before he had even finished his cup of coffee.

“I can’t wait to see you retch on the pitch, mate. It’s going to be bloody entertaining.”

“Hopefully, I will within the first fifteen minutes. Then I’ll be allowed to sit it out in the hospital wing and get back on the ground.” Theo answered with a grin.

Draco rolled his eyes and took a sip of his scalding coffee, wishing the knot in his stomach would finally pass. Quidditch had never made him feel this nervous before. _Nothing_ had ever made him feel quite as nervous before, and he did not have the first idea on how to get rid of the nerves. So, he drank his coffee, his left leg jumping under the long table.

As the sun slowly rose, more students filled the hall. With barely five minutes to spare before they were expected on the pitch, Pansy and Blaise slipped in and grabbed a few toasts to eat on the Quidditch stands while they watched the try-outs. The four of them finally made their way to the Quidditch pitch and Draco and Theo made her way to the ground while the couple turned and disappeared towards the stands.

Duncan Urquhart, a seventh-year student, had been made Quidditch captain for the second year in a row. Draco had never played with the wizard before and knew nothing of his strategies and skills. But he could not be any worse than Flint, he thought to himself while grabbing one of the school’s Cleansweep Five, as he had not bothered bringing his own Nimbus 2001 at the beginning of term. He regretted that decision now, scowling down at the piece of wood in his left hand. How could he possibly catch the snitch on such an _antique_?

He threw a glance Theo’s way, and his frown turned into a grin. The poor bloke had turned green now that they were on the field, about to mount their brooms. Urquhart quickly divided the wizards—no witches had ever been allowed to play for the Slytherin team—into two teams and the trials began. As soon as the whistle blew, Draco flew high over the pitch while Theo refused to fly any higher than five feet. Draco chuckled softly and shook his head, before he grabbed his broom more firmly and started circling the pitch, his eyes open for the Golden Snitch.

Avoiding the many Bludgers sent his way, Draco flew over the other players, is eyes squinting at the sun, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Snitch before the other Seeker. Under him, he watched one of his Chasers flew under an opposing player who had a hold of the Quaffle and performed a perfectly executed Sabryn Steal, the ball now firmly tucked under his arm.

But Draco’s attention was no longer on the players. He had seen the snitch, floating still a few feet above the ground in the far right corner of the pitch. Not wasting a second, Draco gripped his broom and dived towards the Snitch. The other team’s Seeker noticed the sudden movement and quickly followed Draco in his spiral dive. But even with his pitiful broom, he managed to grasp the golden sphere, and the tryout match was won.

Urquhart split them up once more. And again, and again. But Draco always managed to catch the Snitch before the other team. He had even managed to attempt his own version of the Wronski Feint a go, and smirked as the other seeker failed to raise his broom on time and crashed on the pitch. Thankfully, he was alright, and Urquhart called the trials off after Draco’s team had won once more.

Theo hadn’t made the team, and his plan to get sick and leave the practice had backfired on him. The nausea had been ever-present during the trials, but it was only after he had been safely back on the ground that it all came out. From where he stood on the pitch, Draco could hear the cackles of laughter coming from his two Slytherin friends in the stands, and he glanced at them.

Blaise and Pansy were sitting a few rows from the bottom, both of them clapping and cheering as Theo puked his guts out. But the two Slytherins didn’t hold his attention for long. Draco met a pair of warm brown eyes and he frowned at the three Gryffindor students sitting in a sea of green and silver. The Golden Trio had watched the trials, and Draco didn’t know what annoyed him more: Weaselbee and Scarhead’s arrogant little smiles, or Granger’s curious stare.

With a scowl on his face, Draco dropped his gaze and turned his attention back to Urquhart as he announced his pick for the Slytherin team. Draco knew many players would not be happy with him on the team, but no one could deny Draco was the best Seeker the Slytherin team had had in years.

“And for the position of Seeker,” He heard Urquhart say, “Draco Malfoy.”

A grin on his face, Draco walked off the pitch and headed towards the castle. He’d have to write to his case worker at the ministry. No way would he be seen playing a real match on the school broom.


	6. Red Dress and Firewhiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to you all! For the second week in a row, I had to push the update from Thursday to Friday because of a change in my personal schedule. Since the changes seem to be here to stay, any future updates will now be on Fridays!   
> I hope you enjoy this shortish chapter, and please bear with me, Dramione moments are in the making. The next update will actually be a turning point for their enemies-turned-to-lovers relationship.
> 
> I'll be back on November 27th :)  
> Gabrielle xx

According to Ginny, turning nineteen years old on the 19th of September was something to be celebrated. And as it fell on a Saturday, Hermione could make no excuse. The whole of Gryffindor house—and a few classmates from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff—had been invited to celebrate the female part of the Golden Trio’s birthday. It was the perfect excuse to get plastered, really, and all of her protests fell on deaf ears.

Hermione rarely drank, or rather avoided it usually. But if she were being honest, the idea of drowning in a bottle of Firewhiskey sounded rather nice when compared to screaming herself hoarse from a painful memory disguised as a nightmare. What she dreaded, was being drunk in front of so many people. Merlin knew what would come out of her mouth then.

“Come on, Mione!” Whined Ginny, who was kneeling at the feet of her bed, an excited glint in her brown eyes. “You’ll only turn nineteen at Hogwarts _once_! It’s worth celebrating.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and dropped her head back on her pillow, holding back a moan of frustration.

“I never expected to _still_ be attending Hogwarts at nineteen, you know?” She groaned, putting a pillow over her head to muffle the squealing sounds of the red-headed witch. “According to my plan, I should be working for the Ministry of Magic, yet I’m still here…”

“See? You have another year before you have to live the drab life of a Ministry official. Lucky you!” Joked Ginny.

Hermione felt the other witch move around until she was lying down beside her on the large bed. Ginny took the pillow off Hermione’s face, and she had no choice but to open her eyes and turn her head to stare at the bubbly witch. Ginny was on her side, her smiling face resting in the palm of her hand, mere centimetres from Hermione’s frown.

“All jokes aside, Hermione, I think it could be really good for you, and for everyone. It’s your birthday, and after the war and everything—everyone we lost—we shouldn’t take that for granted.” She offered a small smile.

Hermione felt her throat close up. Ginny was right. She was alive, she had survived, and she owed it to the many witches and wizards who had lost their lives in the battle. She should be celebrating life instead of trying to simply go through it. And a party would definitely help boost everyone’s morale. She nodded before she could change her mind.

“All right. You, Ron and Harry can organize a party for my birthday. But I reserve the right to leave whenever I reach the limit of my social battery, and you three can’t be mad at me!”

“I would never. And if the boys say anything, I’ll handle them don’t worry.” She grinned. “This is going to be _so_ fun.”

~

Hermione could hardly believe it, but in the few days leading to her birthday party, she had actually started to feel excited about it. The last time she had felt anything close to excitement had been for Fleur and Bill’s wedding. After that, the trio had gone on the run and fear had taken a permanent place in their mind. Then after the war, numbness.

The new feeling felt out of place, but Hermione welcomed it anyway. It may have made her feel uneasy, but at least she finally felt something. It was a nice, welcomed change. She had even let Ginny talk her into applying _light_ makeup on her face and had let the red-headed witch chose her outfit for the night. Ginny had groaned when Hermione insisted that the makeup be natural, begging the older witch to let her do her magic. But Hermione wasn’t one for bright colours and hated putting on foundation that would cover the freckles on her nose and cheeks.

They had settled for a natural look with light golden undertones and a few twirls of Ginny’s mascara wand on her long eyelashes. The red dress Ginny had chosen for the night was shorter than anything Hermione would’ve chosen for herself, but still long enough so that she could wear it comfortably without worrying about flashing her knickers.

The length was not the issue, it was the sleeves. The _short_ sleeves. Wearing a jacket or a jumper over the dress was out of the question. With the common room full of people, and alcohol running through her veins, she would be too hot to keep it on. And covering her forearm with gauze was just too noticeable.

With a shaky breath, Hermione palmed her wand and took the bandage off. Merlin’s beard was an ugly scar. The only people who knew of it were Harry and the Weasleys. And the people at Malfoy Manor who had watched the word be carved in her skin. No one in Gryffindor Tower had seen the mark that was branding her.

Standing in front of her full-length mirror, Hermione positioned her arm so that the cuts were mostly hidden. If she kept her arm close to her side, it could work. No one else even had to know it was there. It would be fine. _She_ would be fine.

She took a deep breath and followed Ginny down the staircase of the girl’s dormitories. The common room was already full of people from the Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff houses, and a song was blasting from the enchanted jukebox. Wishing the headache away, Hermione jumped off the last step and walked straight to the fireplace, where many bottles of Firewhiskey, butterbeer and several other muggle alcohol bottles were aligned. She quickly grabbed a sealed bottle of Firewhiskey, unscrewed it and took a long sip.

She felt the liquid burn down her throat and settle in her tummy, leaving a warm feeling in its path. She swallowed the dark liquid and coughed. Ginny was looking at her with an amused smile and wide eyes, while Harry and Neville were barely hiding their surprise.

“What? Am I not allowed to have fun at my own birthday party?” She asked with a grin.

She took another sip, already feeling a bit squiffy. Merlin, did she have a low tolerance for wizards’ drinks. She always thought they were stronger than the muggle kind, for some reason. Harry chuckled nervously and took the bottle from her hand.

“Of course, you can Mione. But why don’t we drink from a glass instead of the whole bottle, huh?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but gladly took the filled glass Harry had conjured with a wordless spell. She sipped slowly, her eyes scanning the room. A few students were dancing, others were talking with a drink in their hands and she could see a few couples snogging in dark corners. She averted her eyes quickly and focused on the conversation between Harry, Ginny and Neville. She took a long sip.

“I still can’t believe the ferret got his position back in the Slytherin Quidditch team.” Grumbled Ginny.

Hermione sipped her drink and nodded her head in agreement.

“And did you see the package he received yesterday?” Added Neville. “It looked like a brand new Firebolt Supreme.”

Hermione filled her empty glass.

“They haven’t been released in Britain yet! How did he get one already?” Scoffed Ginny.

“Malfoy always finds a way to get what he wants, doesn’t he? Only, he can’t rely on his father anymore.” Added Harry in a smug tone.

Ginny Chuckled. Neville blushed and nodded. Hermione took a sip.

“Where’s Ron?” Asked Hermione.

Was her speech slurred? No, she felt perfectly fine. She took another sip.

“He’s over there.” Pointed Harry, holding back his smile.

He had never seen Hermione drunk before. The witch had never allowed herself to become any more than slightly tipsy before, and right now, Hermione was well on her way to get plastered. Harry couldn’t help but worry, though, and promised himself he would only stick to his one glass of Firewhiskey and keep a close eye on his friend. The last thing he wanted was for Hermione to get sick, or worse, get drunk for the wrong reasons and regret it afterwards.

Hermione spun around and watched as Ron was making his way towards them, a wrapped gift in his hands and a smiling Luna Lovegood by his side. She smiled as he trapped her in a warm hug and squeezed back just as tight.

“Happy birthday, Mione.” He whispered in her ear.

He let go of her and grinned, handing her the present. Hermione took it quickly and pressed a small peck on his blushing cheek.

“Thank you, Ron. Do you mind if I open it now?”

“Uh, sure. It’s from Harry, Ginny and me.”

Hermione set her empty glass down and quickly tore at the wrapping paper. From the feel of it, she had already guessed it would be a book, but she never thought the wrapping would reveal a first edition copy of Nicolas Flamel’s alchemy essays, published in 1724. Hermione felt the room spin.

“Oh, Merlin. Wow.” She whispered.

Harry and Ron chuckled. Their friend was rarely speechless, and they were proud of the success of their gift. It had taken them months to find the owner of such a rare piece, and they had only been able to get a hold of it earlier this morning, all thanks to a special permission from Headmistress McGonagall that allowed Ron to use the Floo Network in her office.

Hermione’s legs were shaking, and her palms were getting sweaty. She quickly wrapped the book back before her sweat ruined the treasure and stretched her left arm to set her cup on the wooden coffee table, clutching the covered book in her right hand. A gasp escaped from Ron’s mouth.

“You didn’t cover it up.” He stated, his eyes fixed on her scar.

Hermione froze as she felt eyes on her arm. Her hand tightened on the book and she straightened up, crossing her arms over her abdomen. She looked at Ron, a pained look in her eyes. The giggly feeling she had started feeling after her first few sips of the warm liquid evaporated in a blink. Her teeth clenched and her heart squeezed painfully.

“Thank you, Ronald, for pointing that out. I’m so sorry to have bothered you with my ugly scar.” She said, icily.

Hermione turned on her heels and walked straight to the portrait hole, pushing it open and fleeing the common room before the tears could trail down her cheeks.

“I didn’t mean it that way!” Exclaimed Ron. “I was just surprised because she’s so sensitive about her scar, she hardly ever shows us her bloody arm!”

Ginny frowned at her brother, dropped her drink on a table and ran after Hermione.

“I would never mean it that way. You know that, right Harry?”

“I do Ron. But that was not your finest moment.” Harry offered a weak smile.

Ron sat down on the couch and ignored the many pairs of eyes on them. He had always fumbled for the right words in front of Hermione. When he was eleven years old, it was because he found her intelligence intimidating, and as they grew older, because of his crush on her. Even though their romantic relationship had fizzled out before summer, Hermione was simply brilliant, and she would always be one of the most important people in his life. He knew he would always feel this clumsy around the witch, but his clumsiness had been extremely inconvenient ever since the war. He only hoped Hermione would believe him and accept his apology.


	7. Matching Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: graphic description of self harm and suicidal thoughts  
> If this is a subject that triggers you, do not read the scene identified with a series of asterisks (************). 
> 
> Now that that's settled, welcome back everyone! I know I'm a day late, and I'm sorry. This chapter holds more sensitive content than the previous one, and I wanted to choose the right words, so I took more time to write it. I'm still not entirely satisfied with it, and will probably edit it in a few weeks once I've thought more about it..! But for now, here it is. I hope you'll like it! Let me know what you think in the comments!
> 
> Until next week,  
> Gabrielle xx

Hermione heard the door slam shut behind her and sprinted towards the moving staircases. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks while she rubbed at them angrily, refusing to allow herself to be so affected by Ronald bloody Weasley. He wasn’t worth her tears. Her scar wasn’t worth her tears. But Godric help her, she could not stop the tears from falling.

“Hermione, wait!” She heard Ginny yell a few paces behind her.

Running even faster than she thought possible, she took the steps two at a time and jumped on a staircase that had recently started moving, praying it would stop Ginny from following her. She landed awkwardly with a huff, her knees buckling at the impact on the marble staircase.

“For Godric’s sake, Hermione, slow down.” Grunted Ginny several floors above her.

Hermione grabbed the railing and got back on her feet, rubbing off the dust on her backside, before speeding down the stairs. She didn’t look back at Ginny, even as the other witch kept yelling her name as she tried to find a staircase that would get her down more quickly. Ginny’s voice was starting to sound farther and farther away. Out of breath, Hermione slowed down in her tracks and glanced up. She couldn’t see Ginny in any of the nearby staircase.

She sniffled, rubbed her cheeks and stepped off the stairs to the second-floor landing. Grabbing her wand, she muttered the incantation for a silencing charm around herself. No one would hear her footsteps, not even Ginny—if she managed to find her. All that could be heard were the sound of her panting breaths. Merlin, she had gotten more out of shape than she had realized. Stepping in a dark alcove to try and catch her breath, Hermione glanced around the dark corridor. The few portraits that were hanging on the walls were silent, the lit torches casting gloomy shadows on the stone.

Hermione took a few deep breaths, running her hand through her sweat-soaked curls. She fisted her uncontrollable mane and tied it in a loose ponytail. She could feel the start of a panic attack, and focused on her breathing, reciting facts from Hogwarts, a History under her breath. After a few minutes, her heartbeats settled down to a normal pace, and she stepped out of the alcove. She glanced both ways before heading to her left, walking past closed classroom doors, sleeping portraits and statues. As she reached the end of the long corridor, Hermione took a right. She recognized that corridor, it held the girls’ lavatory. Moaning Myrtle bathroom. As much as the witch wanted to avoid the ghost, the need to splash cold water on her cheeks was stronger. She would simply have to do it quickly.

She was hurrying to the lavatory when a loud crashing noise made her stop in her tracks. She retrieved her wand from her pocket and walked slowly to the closed door. Muffling any sound from her side of the door, Hermione put her ear to the door, listening for any sound from inside the bathroom.

Nothing. Then a hiss, followed by gut-wrenching sobs. Gripping her wand firmly in her right hand, Hermione said.

“Alohomora.”

The door unlocked instantly, and Hermione pushed it opened, her wand pointed defensively in front of her.

~

Draco could not take his eyes away from his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His arms were stretched and his fingers were grasping the porcelain in a vice-like grip. His knuckles had turned white a long time ago already and his fingers had started to tingle from the lack of blood. But he could not care less. All he could focus on was the face staring back at him. Pathetic. Worthless. Failure.

Holding back a snarl, Draco hurled his fist at the grey eyes that were mocking him through the glass. The mirror shattered, pieces falling on the floor and in the sink. He grabbed a sharp piece.

TW//******************************************************************

Spineless. Coward. Weak. He hadn’t even been able to properly off himself when the Dark Lord had given him his task, or during his stay in Azkaban. It was as if he liked suffering, as if he enjoyed torturing himself with the memories of his pathetic attempt at being a Dark Eater. As if the mark on his forearm wasn’t a big enough reminder already. The only thing he liked about the mark was how easy it was to make it disappear. To make it bleed. Whenever he took a rock, his wand or—now—a piece of glass to cut through it, his arm quickly turned crimson. Then, with all the blood pouring from the gashes, the mark was barely noticeable. That had become his favourite sight over the last few years.

Nothing he did ever mattered. He couldn’t accomplish anything, would never achieve anything. The proud Pureblood he had been raised to be was long gone. Now the sight in the mirror disgusted him, the mark on his arm disgusted him, the world disgusted him. All he wanted was for things to go back to normal, back to how they were before Voldemort’s return. Deep down, he wanted the pain to go away. But a small part of him liked the pain, welcomed it even. Because hurting meant he was alive. Hurting meant the Dark Lord had failed, meant that his family hadn’t died at the hands of the mad bastard, that he hadn’t died at the hands of the Dark Lord. Pain meant that he could feel something again.

He had been feeling numb for so long, had been protecting his thoughts and disgust from the Dark Lord for so long, that the possibility of feeling something again felt foreign to him. He had been telling himself so many lies, ultimately coming to believe his father’s prejudices, the Dark Lord’s bullshit and his aunt’s maniacal ideas that he didn’t know what he believed anymore. But one thing he knew and understood was the relief he felt whenever he would cut open the skin of his Dark Mark. It was the only thing that made him feel safe in this new world he knew nothing of. It was the only aspect of his life he had any control over.

Unblinking, he pressed the sharp edge to his mark until the first droplet of blood appeared and dragged the shard down. His hiss turned into a grunt as he watched the skin split open, his fingers coated in his blood. Then he cut again, and again. But no matter what he did to the mark, no matter what he used on the mark, the bloody thing was cursed. Nothing would ever scar over the skull and snake. After a few minutes of bleeding, the cuts would heal themselves, and his mark would remain inflamed and painful to the touch, but it would never leave his skin.

*******************************************************************//TW

Draco dropped the piece of glass, a sob escaping his lips as he glared at his bleeding forearm. Why couldn’t the sodding Dark Lord just leave him alone? The bastard was dead, shouldn’t his curse have died with him? Now sobbing uncontrollably, Draco took out his wand from his trousers’ pocket and pointed it at his bleeding mark, ready to curse the whole arm off. The bathroom door flew open and Draco’s head snapped up.

“Piss off, Granger.” He growled out, pointing his wand at the witch frozen in the doorway.

“What in Merlin’s name is going on here? You can’t just destroy the girl’s lavatory, Malfoy! Get out.”

“Fucking hell, Granger. I told you to piss. Off.”

He cast a wordless Flipendo her way, and Hermione blocked it effortlessly.

“How dare you—.” Her voiced cracked when she noticed the blood dripping from his arm. “What were you doing? Were you trying to do blood magic?” She shrieked.

“Oh, for Salazar’s sake, Granger! Do I fucking look in any shape to perform blood magic?” He yelled back. “Has hanging out with Weasel and Scarhead finally rubbed off on you, or are you just naturally this oblivious?”

Hermione opened her mouth to retaliate, but Draco cut her off.

“I don’t actually want to know the answer, you filthy mu—witch. Now, leave me alone.”

Draco could see Hermione’s nostrils flare, and he felt his lips curl back in a mocking snarl.

“Show me your arm.” She snapped in an annoyed tone.

“I’m not showing you anything.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and stepped forward. Draco Malfoy was a bloody stubborn bastard. With a flick of her wand, she froze Draco in his spot and closed the distance between them. She grabbed his arm and could not hold back her gasp. Deep cuts, five of them, ran down his forearm. Blood pooled around her fingers, and she pointed her wand at the wounds to heal them. Nothing happened.

Hermione took her eyes away from Draco’s bloody arm and met his icy stare. She released the freezing charm and asked.

“Why won’t they heal? What have you done?” Her voice sounded frantic even to her own ears.

“It’s the Dark Mark, Granger. Magic doesn’t have any effect on it. They’ll heal themselves in a few hours.” He gritted out, tearing his arm out of the witch’s hold.

“Only if you don’t bleed to death beforehand!” Huffing, she demanded. “You bloody moron, give me your arm. Now.”

Draco frowned at her. Why was the Gryffindor Princess even trying to help him? Hadn’t he suffered enough already? Now he had to endure being near, being touched by the most annoying witch he had the misfortune of meeting. But if Draco knew one thing about Hermione Granger, it was that she was a bloody stubborn witch. If her mind were set on doing something, nothing could stop her. Sodding annoying Gryffindor tenacity. Rolling his eyes, he outstretched his arm and made a point of fixing his gaze above the witch’s shoulder.

“Were you trying to … to hurt yourself?” She said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Draco felt his jaw tighten, his eyes turning cold. Knowing she wouldn’t get an answer out of him, Hermione pursued her lips, and summoned the bag she had dropped by the door of the lavatory. She pulled out rolls of gauze and a phial of blood-replenishing potion, forcing the bottle into his palm.

“Drink this.” Her tone allowed no room for discussion.

Draco uncorked the phial and drank the potion without arguing. Draco hated to admit it, but hers were the only potion brewed by a Muggle-Born he would drink without fearing it had been poisoned to kill him. They hated each other, but Hermione was too pure to poison anyone, even a bloody Death Eater. The war would have been over much faster if only the Order hadn’t been so righteous. He rolled his eyes at the thought.

“How long have you…? It can’t be the first time. The skin around your mark is striped with scars.”

“It’s none of your business, is it now Granger? I didn’t ask for your help.” He turned his grey eyes to hers.

“But I’m giving it to you anyway.”

“And you’re expecting my gratitude, I suppose?”

“I no longer expect anything of you, Malfoy.”

He frowned. What was that supposed to mean? She dropped his gaze and focused on the task at hand. Once his arm was fully bandaged, he lowered his sleeve and cast a Scourgify on his blood-soaked shirt. Before he could stop himself, he heard himself ask.

“Why do you carry all that stuff around for anyway?”

What in Salazar’s name was wrong with him? He was actually having a casual conversation with Hermione sodding Granger, and neither of them were throwing insults at the other.

“You’re not the only one around here with a scarred forearm, Malfoy. Your aunt left me with some pretty nasty cuts that won’t bloody heal, don’t you remember?” She asked, her tone turned icy.

Draco tensed, his eyes instantly moving to her covered arm. He knew what was hidden under the layers of clothing. Her branding scar. Draco gulped as the flashbacks of the screaming witch, writhing on the floor of his drawing room resurfaced.

“I guess you’re right.” He said, standing up and leaving the mess he had made in the lavatory behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2020-12-05  
> Hello everyone, I just wanted to tell you that there won't be an update this week. There probably won't be for two - hopefully not - maybe three weeks. I'm so sorry, but being a full time student in the middle of my final exams is a bit more time-consuming that I wished and hoped it would be... I promise, I'll be back as soon as possible with an update.  
> Thank you for those of you who took the time to read and comment my chapters, it meant a lot to me knowing people liked what and how I wrote it :)
> 
> Gabrielle xx


	8. The Library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I'm so sorry it took so long, life got pretty crazy (and it still is) and I seriously thought I would be back sooner... But better late than never, right? I will try my best to give you new chapters every week, but I can't make any promises.   
> Hope you enjoy this one! :) Hopefully I'll be back on February 22nd!

Hermione was sitting at a library desk, several rolls of parchment and heavy tomes opened on the wooden table in front of her. But her focus was on something else entirely. There, in the far-east corner of the library, beneath the stained-glass window, sat Draco Malfoy. At _her_ favourite table.

Only minutes ago, Hermione had pushed open the doors of her favourite escape place and had marched down the aisles to her favourite table, only to stop dead in her tracks at the sight of the bloody ferret sitting at _her_ table. On _her_ armchair.

She had sat at the same desk ever since her first year at Hogwarts. Everyone knew this, even _Draco Malfoy_! She had picked the desk for many reasons, but mostly because it was in a secluded corner of the library and it gave the privacy she had so desperately craved as a friendless eleven-year-old. Over the years, the desk had offered a sense of familiarity and comfort, and now, Malfoy had stolen it.

“The _git_!” she had gritted under her breath before turning on her heels and sitting down at the first desk available.

From her spot, she could spy on the Slytherin boy by tilting her chair on its back legs and craning her neck just a tiny bit. The moment Malfoy would gather his things to leave, she would claim her table back.

She huffed in annoyance and watched as the silver-haired wizard furrowed his brows at the piece of parchment he was holding and grabbed his quill to write something down. Hermione lowered the front legs of her chair back to the ground and rolled her eyes. It looked like they would be here for a while, and she could ignore her schoolwork no longer.

She balled her fists, cursing at Malfoy under her breath and grabbed her own quill to start on her homework. As much as she wanted her desk back, she would rather die than let Malfoy interfere with her schoolwork and Head Girl duties.

Planning the Prefects’ patrolling schedule for the next month took less time than she had anticipated, and a quick glance towards the back of the library confirmed that her table was still occupied by its unwelcome guest. She grabbed her DADA notes and set her mind on finishing her essay for Professor Weasley—a 24-inch roll on the topic of _Effective Defensive Spells Used in Curse-Breaking—_ that was due on Hallowe’en’s eve.

Skimming through the books, writing down important spells and curses and cross-referencing her notes with even larger tomes, Hermione realized she had forgotten to grab one of the most relevant books for her research and rose to her feet to grab it. As luck would have it, the book just so happened to be shelved in the aisle facing Malfoy and her table. She silently made her way to the section, grabbed she needed, and walked down the row a little farther as to not draw attention. There, she could watch the wizard between two shelves of dusty books and see what was taking so long.

Malfoy was engrossed in his work, his quill scratching furiously at his parchment and his left hand alternating between pulling at and running through his pale locks every few seconds. Hermione watched him silently for a few minutes, never taking her eyes off him.

It had been two weeks since her disastrous birthday party. Two weeks of avoiding Ronald—and Harry, too, since the only words he could manage to get out in her presence where excuses for their friend’s poor behaviour. Two weeks of reassuring Ginny she was feeling fine. Two weeks of shutting herself off from everyone. Again.

Two weeks of trying, and _failing_ , to take her mind off Draco Malfoy. Ever since their … _moment_ in the girl’s lavatory, Malfoy had been on her mind. In the past weeks, she had often found herself replaying their discussion instead of listening to her professors during classes. Thank Merlin for her reputation as a Straight-O student. The professors never bothered to quiz her, and she didn’t make a fool of herself fumbling over words as she tried and failed to come up for an answer to a question that she obviously had not heard, too busy thinking about Draco bloody Malfoy.

She had even tried to catch his gaze in the Great Hall, with no success. But she did manage to catch Pansy Parkinson’s eyes a few times, and quickly averted her own as the Slytherin girl stared back with a calculating look in her dark eyes.

When she could finally manage to think of something else, focus on something important and get on with her life, he would appear out of thin air. He would turn a corner of the castle and nearly bump into her, or he would leave the supply closet during potions’ class just as she was about to walk in. And now, there he was, sitting at her favourite blimey desk in the library.

It felt as if the wizard was following her just to spite her. Hermione had spent the major part of her teenage years successfully avoiding Malfoy, barely even granting him a second thought after her second year at the magical school. He had called her a Mudblood then, and her twelve-year-old self had been hurt. Hurt and ashamed. But she had shrugged it off and worked even harder to prove anyone, especially Draco Malfoy, that _Mudblood_ meant nothing. After that incident, she refused to let anything the prick did or said affect her. And now, she could barely think of anything, _or anyone_ , else. She hated it. She hated _him_.

Biting her inner cheek to keep from speaking out loud, Hermione mentally cursed Malfoy and walked back to her table, ready to finish her essay. She would, scratch that, _could_ no longer allow herself to think about a certain silver-haired wizard. Or the pained look in his eyes when she had walked in on him in the bathroom. Or his bloody forearm and scars, so similar to her own cuts. Or the mask that had slipped back on before he had stormed out. No, she would no longer waste her time thinking of Draco Malfoy. She had better things to do.

~

Draco watched from the corner of his eyes as Granger stomped back to her new desk, holding back a chuckle. The witch was so easily annoyed by anything he did, he had turned it into a petty game. _How Long Until Granger Loses Her Shit_ he had called it. Theo had chortled, while Blaise and Pansy had frowned. Parkinson had even scolded him and told him to leave the Muggle-Born alone.

Truth was, turning it into a joke was the only thing he _could_ do to stop Granger from sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Granger had a reputation for throwing herself at charity cases. Scarhead Potter, the Weasel and house elves were only a few examples of her hero complex. His _slip_ in the girls’ lavatory was the only glimpse Granger would ever have at his vulnerability. There was no way he would ever let himself become her next charity case, no way he would ever allow her to get close enough to help him. The bloody witch could rot in hell.

He didn’t need her help. He didn’t need _anyone_. Draco was perfectly fine, and he would be even better once that horrible mark on his arm stopped hurting like a bitch. But for the foreseeable future, he was stuck with it, so be it. What he did in his spare time was none of the witch’s business, and Draco had sworn to himself he would get rid of the swot before she could make him charity case number _unknown._ Draco would rather be shunned by the entire wizarding world than see that look of pity in Granger’s brown eyes even once more.

It was the look that had finally taken his mind out of the fog and let him realize that it was Hermione bloody Granger healing him. _Pitying him_. That thought had sobered him up, and he had fled the room as fast as his shaking legs could carry him. How dare she touch him? Help him? Throw a spell at him? They weren’t friends. He wasn’t one of her dimwitted friends she could boss around. What was wrong with her?

He kept asking himself those questions as he made his way to the Slytherin common room, never coming up with an answer. The only explanation possible? The witch was mental. Bonkers, Theo had said. The war had worsened her hero complex, and now she was itching to find her next pet project. Well, it would not be him. Hermione Granger would have to find someone else to save. He didn’t need saving.

His decision to annoy the shit out of her had solidified itself after he had caught her _blatantly_ ogling him during a meal in the Great Hall. The witch couldn’t even be subtle about it, for Salazar’s sake! One thing about Hermione Granger was that she liked to follow a precise routine. She favoured familiarity over spontaneity. So, he had started to follow her around, hoping to startle her perfectly organized schedule so that she would hopefully go back to her old ways of avoiding him. No such luck.

He changed his strategy then, going out of his way to spite her. As he had in their first and second years at Hogwarts. He started by grabbing the last cauldron or ingredients for potion-making—even though he didn’t need them—just so Granger would be left empty-handed during potions’ class. Or by sitting at her favourite desk and enjoying the witch-fit from a safe distance. With any luck, she would give up in a few days, and things would finally go back to normal. Or as normal as they could ever be.

~

Two could play this game, Hermione thought as she sat a few rows behind Draco during their DADA class. It wasn’t her usual table, but she was still avoiding Ron and Harry, so sitting beside Neville was the best alternative. Three days had passed since Malfoy had stolen her desk at the library. And for three days, he had sat at that same table, completely impassible to her glare. Impassible or oblivious, Hermione wasn’t certain. Although, she could swear she had seen his frown turn into a smirk the day before.

But this little game Malfoy was playing was coming to an end. Today. Thank Merlin, Bill did not try to quiz her on the contents of his lecture. She had no idea of what the eldest Weasley was talking about, too focused on a head of silver-blonde hair to think of anything else. As if he could sense her eyes burning holes in the back of his head, Malfoy turned his neck and their eyes met. She narrowed her eyes. He frowned, his upper lip curling back annoyingly, and turned his head around to face their professor once more.

Class ended, and she quickly grabbed her books and left for the library. She knew both Malfoy and she had a free period until their lunch break, and she knew that he would be sprinting to the library to steal her table before she could get there. She pushed open the doors of the library, waved at Madam Pince and walked to her spot. She rolled her eyes and held back a smirk. Malfoy was just sitting down, huffing and cheeks red. So predictable.

She stomped to _her_ table and slammed her books down. Malfoy tensed on his chair, and raised his chin to stare at her, eyebrows pointed and a disdainful pout on his lips.

“Enough is enough, Malfoy.” She spat. “You’re sitting at my table. Get up.”

“I don’t see your name written on here, Granger.” He pointed at the table covered by their books and pieces of parchment. “And I’m already sitting comfortably.” He added with a smirk.

“All right. You can stay, I don’t mind sharing.” She shrugged, pulling back the chair facing Malfoy and sitting down.

His smirk disappeared.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He spat.

“Sitting down at my table, obviously. You’re welcome to stay, if you want. But I doubt you’d willingly share your personal space with a Mudblood, right?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t _what_?”

“Use that word.” Draco said in a choked whisper.

“What word? Mudblood?” She scoffed. “I _own_ that word now, Malfoy. It’s carved in my arm. You or anyone else saying it can no longer hurt me.”

At her words, Malfoy’s eyes dropped to her left forearm and she watched him screw his eyes shut momentarily. When he looked back at her, his eyes were clouded, _dull._

“Be my guest, Granger. I’m not moving.”

He grabbed his book and started reading, doing his best to ignore the bushy-haired witch sat in front of him. Hermione pursued her lips, but kept her mouth shut. She grabbed her own books and rolls of parchment and started reviewing her notes the day’s classes. The pair worked in silence for a few minutes, before Hermione set her quill down and watched the boy sitting in front of her. She watched as Draco tried and failed to ignore her eyes on him, the movement of his quill becoming slower and more hesitant the longer she stared at him.

“Will you stop that?” He gritted out.

“Not a chance, ferret.”

Draco’s quill snapped in half and he threw her an icy glare.

“Watch your mouth, Granger.”

He bent down to grab a new quill from his shoulder bag on the floor.

“If you don’t like what you hear, you could always leave?” She asked in a mocking tone.

Draco chuckled, the low sound resonating in the empty space of the corner of the library.

“Nice try, Granger, but I quite like this desk. Can’t say the same thing for the company, though.” He added with a mocking smile, before turning his attention back to his essay.

Hermione watched Malfoy’s fingers as they gripped his new quill with way more pressure than necessary and tried to read the words as he wrote them down. She had expected Malfoy to write in an elegant manner, surely the result of years’ worth of calligraphy lessons with the best wizards and witches the Malfoys could find to ensure their precious little boy could write like the Sacred Twenty-Eight royalty that he was. What she did not expect was a scrawl even more illegible than Harry’s.

“Are you actually writing words, or are you simply testing your quill to see if it will transfer ink to parchment?”

Draco ran his left hand through his pale locks, the ring he wore on his thumb glinting as it caught a sun ray and sighed.

“Do you ever stop talking, for fuck’s sake?” He said, his eyes meeting hers.

Hermione shrugged.

“No.” She answered with a too sweet smile.

His lips curled in an amused smirk.

“Fair enough.” He ran his fingers through his hair once more. “To answer your question, yes, those are words. I’m not the one pretending to work on my essay to spy on someone else.”

“I beg your pardon! I’m not spying on you!”

“You’re right, spying would require subtlety. Kind of like the other day when you were watching me from over there.” He pointed at the shelves she had hidden behind to watch him the last time they had been in the library. “But even that lacked subtlety, Granger. I guess you’re just rubbish at spying then.”

Hermione felt her cheeks redden.

“I was not spying on you! I was…” She mumbled. “How’s your arm?”

She watched as Draco’s cheeks turned crimson.

“None of your business.” His tone was flat.

“I have some healing paste I could give you if the cuts are still open.”

“I’m fine.” He gritted out, fist clenching on the desk.

“Really, I have several…” Hermione reached into her beaded bag and fumbled around for the familiar tub of salve.

“Will you shut up!” He shouted, his fists slamming on the table. “I said I’m fine, leave me the fuck alone, Granger.”

Hermione jumped in surprise and avoided his gaze as she grabbed her things and left the library in a hurry, mumbling a “sorry” as she rose to her feet. Draco’s eyes followed the witch’s figure as she nearly sprinted away and turned his gaze back to his essay. There, in front of him where Hermione had been sitting, laid a full tub of homemade healing paste.


End file.
